


The Missing Pieces

by MotherMaple



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Flirting, POV Jughead Jones, Smut, Strip Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherMaple/pseuds/MotherMaple
Summary: "He knows he’s staring - and he knows that she knows it because she’s watching him through dancing eyes with that plump bottom lip of hers trapped between her teeth - but he can’t help it because he’s pretty sure she’s a goddess and there’s a little indentation by her hip bone that looks like it was meant for his tongue…"





	The Missing Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> So we got an ask at the Blue and Gold looking for a strip-game fic, and a plot bunny was born. It's a bit of a departure for me, with the narration-to-dialogue ratio being completely reversed, but I thought I'd try something new.  
> With many thanks to my girl Jandy, who did not beta this fic, per se, (so don't blame her for SPAG) but who did willingly read and re-read my draft, helped with the plot and generally made me feel good about myself while I was writing this mess. You're the best. xoxo
> 
> **This work is inappropriate for readers under the legal age of consent**

Betty Cooper is most decidedly not sober.

There are a number of indications: the bright flush of her cheeks, the bold, excited look in her eyes - the fact that she’s half-naked and giggling hysterically into Veronica’s shoulder.

Jughead isn’t entirely certain how they got to this point - the six of them in various states of intoxication and undress, draped over Betty and Veronica’s living room. It’s not that he doesn’t remember- he remembers. He’s just not sure that he understands.

The evening started innocently enough; Archie practically on his knees, begging Jughead to join him at the girls’ place for Friday game night, Jughead’s half-baked protests involving overdue essays and upcoming midterms, and then Archie’s trump card: “Betty invited you specifically, bro.” 

He’d always known that confessing that age-old crush to Archie would come back to bite him on the ass.

So he found himself trudging through the snow with his jeans tucked into winter boots and a well-worn college sweater over his ribbed tank top, and pressing the intercom button while Archie juggled a case of beer and a paper bag from the local liquor store.

Betty and Veronica, along with Cheryl and Kevin, were already well into their first bottle of wine when Archie and Jughead arrived, and the hug Betty greeted him with was considerably touchier - and longer -than any he’d ever received previously. Her body moulded itself against his, and her soft hands somehow found their way under his sweater as her arms wrapped around his waist. “You smell good, Juggie,” murmured absently in his ear; the scent of cloves assaulting his own senses - he was suddenly in desperate need of a drink and some air. 

Things went downhill from there. It turned out that the selection of games in the dorm common room lacklustre at best. The only one they could all agree on was Trivial Pursuit, and when they discovered that half of the pie pieces were missing, Veronica enthusiastically suggested playing for clothes instead of wedges.

 The rules were simple enough - questions that should have been worth a wedge would instead cost a piece of clothing if answered incorrectly, with the winner being the last person to get down to their panties or shorts. 

And that’s how Jughead found himself, on what should have been an orange wedge question, peeling off his sweater because Anthony “Spud” Webb and his many accomplishments were a mystery to him. The fact that his first missed answer was on a sports question had absolutely not been a surprise. 

What had been a surprise was that Betty Cooper  _bit her fucking lip_ at the sight of his bare arms. 

So it went until Kevin met his demise at the hands of the composer of the original Star Wars score, followed by Cheryl, who brazenly discarded lingerie that probably cost more than an entire semester’s worth of textbooks; Archie, having only survived as long as he did by somehow missing the wedge question with nearly every roll of the die; and Veronica, who good-naturedly admitted that she had no idea which African country is alphabetically third. 

And now Jughead is sitting in only his jeans, surrounded by his hysterical friends, as Betty -  captain of the Quiz Bowl team - misses her second question and bursts into laughter at Veronica’s off-key rendition of David Rose’s ‘The Stripper’. She stopped drinking an hour ago but her buzz evidently hasn’t worn completely off because she stands up and wiggles her hips playfully as she slides her jeans down her impossibly long legs.

 It’s not as though he’s never seen her legs before - they grew up together and Betty’s bathing suits had haunted his dreams over many a summer - but something about the way she’s been acting tonight has his thoughts spiralling. If she’d bitten her lip when he’d pulled off his sweater, she’d blatantly ogled him when the wife of Edward V had cost him his tank top. 

What’s worse is that it was a trick question. 

Even now, when he’s been in that state for nearly half an hour, he still catches her glancing at his chest when she thinks he’s not looking - and he’s trying desperately not to look. It was the shock of his life when she unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a sheer, dark purple bra that he would have never imagined her in, and now she’s standing opposite him in matching panties that seem to belie a casual Friday night at home. 

He knows he’s staring - and he knows that she knows it because she’s watching him through dancing eyes with that plump bottom lip of hers trapped between her teeth - but he can’t help it because he’s pretty sure she’s a goddess and there’s a little indentation by her hip bone that looks like it was meant for his tongue… 

She sits down again and tosses him the die. “Your turn, Juggie,” she says, grinning wickedly at him. 

The game drags on, and on. Veronica and Archie give up the pretence of paying attention and vanish into her bedroom. Cheryl, nearly asleep, collects her clothes and orders Kevin to escort her back to her private dorm. 

Play speeds up as the buzz of alcohol dissipates, both of them forgetting about the twist in the game as their competitive natures take hold. Finally, Betty misses the name of the artist who designed the Eiffel Tower and locks eyes with Jughead. He can’t tell if she’s flushed or blushing but her chest is definitely rising and falling much more quickly than it had been a minute ago. 

“Betts -” he says weakly as she moves to unclasp her bra. “You don’t have to.” He’s won, he’s not going to make her prove it. 

She smiles and leans her elbows on the board, resting her chin in her hands, and he’s a _bsolutely not_ _noticing_ how the action has pushed her breasts together. “Why not? You don’t want me to?” 

Talk about a loaded fucking question. Of course, he wants her to but he’s not a Neanderthal. He went along with the rules because no one says no to Veronica Lodge, but he’s not here to get his kicks by forcing girls to strip for him. God, though, the way she’s looking at him. He can’t decide if her stare is calculating or appraising - it’s not shy whatever else it might be. “You just - you don’t have to. Not for a stupid game.” 

She blinks so slowly that it has to be intentional and drops her voice to a raspy whisper. “You didn’t stop Cheryl and Ronnie.” Her thumb slips under her bra strap and she strokes the material idly. “Why me?” 

“That - “ he swallows audibly, watching her fingers drop to twist around a little satin bow where the strap meets the sheer cup of the bra. “That was just scorekeeping.” 

With a flick of her wrist, the strap dangles down her arm, and then she’s perched on her knees and leaning right across the board. “Yeah? And what’s this?” 

Why couldn’t she ask him an easy question? The answer to global conflict, perhaps. “I don’t know. What is this?” 

Shrugging, she gestures around the deserted room. “It’s just us, Juggie. It can be whatever we decide.” She rolls the ottoman and game board away and crawls across the now-empty space between them. “So what do you want?” He’s sitting on his heels and she’s almost straddling his lap and he swears that the air has turned electric. 

“Betts, what are you doing?” His voice is unsteady, barely above a whisper. Inches separate them and he knows her eyes are green, but all he can see is black when he looks at her. He’s clutching the pillow on which he’s kneeling with both hands, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her. Heat is radiating from her body and it would only take the slightest shift and, _fuck,_ he can practically feel her skin against his. 

“I thought that was obvious,” she whispers, leaning down and letting her breath fan over his neck. “I’m trying to seduce you.” 

He wouldn’t have said it was obvious, per se, but yeah, the idea had crossed his mind once or twice this evening. “Why?” The tips of his fingers ghost lightly up her thighs and she shivers, arching her back and rubbing her cheek against his. 

“Why do people normally try to seduce other people?” Her lips tickle his ear and she’s barely touched him but every second of contact makes his head spin to the point where coherent thoughts are all but impossible. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“I don’t want you to stop, but God, Betty,” he whispers, “are you going to regret this in the morning?” 

“The only thing I regret is that I didn’t do this years ago.”  She trails the fingers of one hand up his chest to tangle in his hair, scratching his scalp and tugging lightly. “Will you?” 

The words slip out before he can stop them. Maybe he doesn’t want to stop them. “I might.”

She stills and pulls back, sliding her hand out of his hair to cup his cheek. “Why?” she asks, fixing him with a probing gaze. 

He didn’t want to tell her like this - half-naked, aroused, sucked in by a game - but he won’t take what she’s offering without telling her the truth. “I can’t just hook up with you, Betty.” He winces at her frown and looks away. “This is - it would mean something to me.”

Her body tenses and she lets out a shaky breath. “Jug, look at me.”  Her eyes are green again, though still hazy with lust, and there’s something else there that he can’t put his finger on. “It means something to me, too.” 

“What?” His heart is hammering in his chest and that’s maybe the last thing he would have expected her to say, and _God_ , he hopes she means what he thinks she does. 

She huffs and pouts adorably. “I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am, Jones, but I’m not in the habit of using guys and then tossing them away.” 

“I never thought you were. But what, exactly, are you saying?”

“All this conversation is really dampening the mood, here. Can I just say that I kind of like you and we can discuss the rest later?” 

“You _kind of_ like me?” 

“You really want your pound of flesh, don’t you? Okay, how’s this.” She sits back on her own heels, mirroring his pose. “I really like you, I have for a while, and I’m sitting here in underwear that Veronica picked out because I was hoping, one way or another, that tonight would end like this.” 

Definitely the last thing he expected her to say. She likes him? And -  “You _planned_ this? And Veronica was in on it?” 

“Yes. And yes.” She folds her arms and glares at him menacingly. “Your turn.” 

He’s shocked and relieved and probably happy but it hasn’t sunk in yet. All he wants now is to get the words out and maybe see where the evening takes them. “Same. Except that I didn’t plan this and Veronica had nothing to do with my underwear.” 

“Your loss,” she giggles, relaxing. “So, are we on the same page now? Can I continue?” 

“Fuck, yes.” The sultry, heady atmosphere has faded and he’s afraid they won’t be able to get it back, but he’s damn well going to let her try. “Please.” 

She lets out a quiet hum of approval and shifts her weight, leaning her hands on his thighs and nudging his jaw with her nose. “You can touch me, you know,” she teases, trailing slow, sucking kisses down his throat. “If you want.” 

Her voice is husky and laced with honey and sin and he swears he’s never heard anything sexier. Where she wants this to go is a mystery to him but he finds himself extremely willing to tag along. Slowly, tentatively, he slides his hands up her hips to rest on her waist - she’s soft and strong and his thumbs trace circles on her hip bones as she makes her way back up his neck and swirls her tongue around his earlobe. 

He’s trying to remember the last time he’d felt like this, when she climbs onto his lap and brackets his hips with her thighs. She’s hot and silky against his chest and he’s glad his jeans are tight enough that she probably can’t feel how hard he is already. His hands slide around her waist and one strokes up her back to weave into her hair. “Can I kiss you, Betts?” 

She nods and he cradles the back of her head, pulling away to look at her. Her eyes are glassy, her lips are swollen from his stubble, and her breathing is fast and heavy in the quiet room. He brings his other hand up to her face and pulls her in, taking a minute to savour the anticipation - their breath mingling, their lips not quite touching. The air crackles between them and he’s drowning in the inky depths of her eyes and then she moves that last quarter inch and suddenly everything’s clear and nothing makes sense because there’s no way he could prepare for the all-encompassing feeling of her lips meeting his, or the soft sigh she breathes into his mouth. 

The sweet catch and release of a timid first kiss escalates to a sensual, erotic dance of lips and tongues and quiet moans and wandering fingers. Her body is soft and yielding under his hands and she lets him explore, arching closer when he traces her spine, and curving away again when he moves to the lean expanse of her stomach. She’s fire and wine in his arms and he’s drunk with arousal at the way she’s subtly writhing against him. 

He groans and pulls away, wrapping her hair around his fist and gently tugging her head back. The milky skin of her throat is salty and slightly bitter from her perfume but he’s far more aware of the satisfied noises she’s making as he sucks his mark onto her collarbone. Her hands are in his hair and he’s realizing for the first time how much he likes that feeling when he finds a spot behind her ear that makes her gasp out loud and roll her hips firmly against him. 

Then all at once, she’s on her back on the carpet and he’s bracing his forearms on either side of her head, tangling his fingers with hers and devouring her neck like a man starved. She arches up into him and he thinks he can feel her nipples grazing his chest, and he knows that’s her leg twisting around his hip and he’s so unbelievably hard that he wonders what supernatural force Levi’s uses to reinforce their zippers. 

His lips drop to the seductive valley of her breasts and he gets lost in his mind for a moment, dragging his tongue over her, teasing and tasting.

“Jug,” she breathes. “Don’t forget: I lost.” 

It takes him a minute to realize what she means and then his head snaps up in surprise. “Are you sure?” 

She nods fervently and tells him, “it’s a magnet.” 

That throws him for a second until she nods at the front closure of her bra and he realizes that some sympathetic manufacturer has finally grown tired of clumsy men fumbling over metal hooks and created a bra that is held together by the laws of physics. He doesn’t even have to let go of her hands as he catches the edge of one of the cups in his teeth and jerks his head. The flimsy scraps of lace fall away and he immediately takes one of her nipples in his mouth, groaning around the soft flesh as it pebbles under his tongue. 

Betty’s panting in earnest now, her hips pressing unconsciously against his as he moves his lips across her body, pressing searing kisses everywhere he can reach. He really needs to know how far she wants to take it, but at the same time, he’s perfectly content to worship her like this. 

She must be thinking along the same lines because she pulls her hand free and catches his jaw, guiding him up to look into her eyes. “Do you want to go to my room?” 

The realization that they’re locked together on the living room floor where Veronica or Archie could easily catch them is jarring. “It might be safer.” He hesitates. “Is that what you want?” 

She licks her lips and drops her gaze to his body, flexed and tense above her. “That’s not all I want.” 

It’s a fine line between sexy and cheesy and he’s not sure where that sentence falls - he’ll take it, though. He’s not built like Reggie, or even like Archie, but Betty feels weightless in his arms as he stands up and carries her to her bedroom. 

There’s less light than in the living room: just the blue-ish glare filtering in through the blinds and the soft glow of a desk lamp, and Betty looks like something out of an old noir film, lying on the white blankets with shadows dancing over her body and her hair a tousled cloud around her. He thinks he could stare at her forever like this, but she reaches for him and pulls him onto the bed beside her. 

“I don’t think you need these,” she says coyly, fingering the button on his jeans. “May I?”

He nods and holds his breath as she pops the button and slowly drags the zipper down. She tugs on the heavy denim, pushing it down over his hips and he takes over, kicking the jeans away and quickly removing his socks, remembering vaguely that it’s something of a faux pas to leave them on during sex - assuming that’s what’s going to happen here. Even if it’s not, tube socks do not lend themselves to a romantic atmosphere. 

She seems mesmerized as she stares at him, her sharp eyes taking in every ridge of muscle, every dip, every hollow. He thinks he should feel self-conscious but she doesn’t give him a chance; rolling over and straddling his hips and dropping her head to meet him in a deep, drugging kiss. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this from me,” she says, breaking away and running her hands down his torso appreciatively. 

“You never told me you wanted it.” He smirks and brushes his nose against hers. “All you had to do was ask.” 

“Cheeky bugger.” She bites her lip and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, not even trying to hide her grin. “What about you? What do _you_ want?” 

Jughead’s not really sure how to answer that. The obvious answer is also the simplest - he wants her, probably more than anything he’s ever wanted before. But - “Whatever you want, Betts. Anything, everything. This is enough.” 

Her eyebrow arches in disbelief and he’s reminded how long they’ve known each other. He can’t bullshit her. “I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, Forsythe,” she teases, mimicking their high school librarian. “Now tell me what you really want.” 

He moves abruptly, flipping her onto her back and pinning her down, trapping her hands above her head. “I want you,” he breathes, kissing and biting up the column of her throat. “All of you.” 

She shudders against him and nods frantically. “Thank God,” she whispers. “I thought you were going to make me beg.” 

“I don’t have that kind of willpower, honestly. Maybe next time.” It’s an enticing image but it’s not what he’s in the mood for tonight. His hands drop to her waist and he teases the lacy edge of her panties. “Can I take these off?” 

“Yes.” Her eyes are huge in the moonlight and she watches him, fascinated, as he kneels between her legs and slides the panties down her thighs, bending each knee in turn to kick them off and away. 

His mouth goes dry at the sight of her, naked and spread open for him, her chest heaving and her body shivering with desire. “God, Betty. You’re so beautiful.” He leans down and starts at her ankle, slowly working his way up her leg, kissing and caressing every inch as he goes. By the time he reaches her hip, her hands are twisted in the blanket and she’s almost gasping for breath. He licks an experimental swipe at her centre and she cries out, arching off the bed. 

Grinning, he presses her thighs apart and settles between them, using every ounce of his resolve not to dive into her like some ravenous beast. Instead, he teases her- brushing his knuckles lightly against her, lapping at her briefly before switching to hungry kisses and back again, using his fingers and tongue together until she’s squirming on the bed and gripping his hair with both hands. “Right there,” she pants. ‘Please don’t stop.” 

She’s tense and trembling, and his hands are everywhere they can reach. He can’t believe how wet she is or the way she’s gasping his name and stumbling over every syllable, and then her nails are digging into his scalp and she’s cursing uncontrollably which he’s definitely never heard before, and, oh my God, he never would have thought he’d get to see Betty lose herself like this. She holds nothing back, and the sounds she’s making will probably echo in his mind until his dying day. He doesn’t stop until she drags him away; crawling over her and pressing a hard, sloppy kiss to her lips. 

It’s hard to say who’s breathing harder as they stare at each other, her hands still in his hair, their hearts beating furiously together. She’s the first to speak, murmuring something incoherent and complimentary. He nods, not sure what she’d actually said but willing to agree with anything at this point. This is the most intimate he’s ever been with a woman and he’s got no clue what he’s supposed to do next but she quickly puts him out of his agony. “Make love to me, Juggie?” 

Her voice is sweet and breathless and Jughead closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that flood through him. He nods shakily, lightly stroking her jaw with his thumb. She’s everything he wants in this moment but he’s afraid that her expectations might be too high. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Betts.” 

She’s suddenly completely alert and her head lifts off the pillow. “What? Jug, you’ve never…?” 

His sense of humour is sufficiently developed that he can appreciate being the blushing virgin in this scenario and he shakes his head. “Never.” He grins teasingly. “I’d make a crude joke about you getting to pop my cherry but I don’t have enough blood left in my brain to come up with a punchline right now.” 

She relaxes and laughs a little bit. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” 

“Oh, thanks,” he says dryly.  “That’s a relief.” They share a goofy smile and he leans down to kiss her again, a slow, deep kiss that sets his body humming. Betty’s making little whimpering noises at the back of her throat and clinging to him like he’s the only thing tying her to Earth, and he still can’t believe that he’s here, doing this with her. 

“Touch me, Juggie.” She whispers it like an erotic request, although it’s probably more like a nudge in the right direction, and he’s only too happy to comply. “Oh, yeah,” she sighs, arching her neck as he slides his hand between her legs. She’s soaked, and he easily slips one finger inside of her, then another, settling his lips against a tendon in her throat and gently sucking the delicate skin. She’s practically purring, watching him with a heavy, lidded gaze. 

“Is that good?” 

“Mhm.” She tilts his head up and kisses him lazily. “I should get a condom.” 

He’s glad she thought of that because he’s officially past the point of responsible decision making, and he shifts away, letting her climb off the bed. She digs into a dresser drawer and fishes out some foil packets, tossing them onto the quilt next to him. He’s sitting up now, his legs dangling over the edge as he studies her, absolutely gone for the way she stands so confidently before him. 

She snaps the waistband of his shorts and gives them a tug, indicating that he should take them off. 

There isn’t a man on the planet who isn’t completely aware of the exact dimensions of his erect cock, and Jughead’s no exception. He knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about, but he also _doesn’t_ know what Betty has to compare him to.

It turns out that he doesn’t need to worry because her eyes widen at the sight of him and she smiles delightedly, sinking to her knees beside the bed. “Can I?” she asks, blinking up at him. 

He nods and she wraps her hand around him, stroking firmly and watching for his reaction. “Fuck, Betts,” he hisses, gripping the edge of the bed. Her tongue darts out and he almost jumps at the contact, and then she’s sucking the whole of his length into her mouth and he lets out a noise between a groan and a whine. “Oh, my God.” 

Smiling, she takes him deeper, swallowing around him and doing something with her tongue that makes him see stars. “Holy shit,” he gasps. “Please do that again.” He gathers her hair into a ponytail and grips it tighter than he probably should but now she’s humming deep in her throat and bobbing her head enthusiastically, and if she doesn’t stop this it’s going to end here and now.  “Betty. Betty, wait.” She pulls away with a wet pop and grins up at him, wiping her mouth primly with her thumb. 

“Yes?” He had a point. He’s sure of it. “Is there something you wanted to share with the class, Juggie?” 

He’s trying - and failing - to think of a way to word it that doesn’t make him sound like a complete barbarian, but she’s still got his cock in her hand and all he can get out is, “God, I need to fuck you.” 

Apparently, drawing-room manners are _not_ a requirement because she actually moans at his words and snatches a condom off the bed, tearing it open with her teeth and rolling it over him before he can blink. Then she’s straddling his thighs and guiding him towards her centre. “Ready?” 

“Christ, yes. Please.” He’d beg if she asked him to, but she doesn’t, shifting her hips and taking him with a satisfied sigh. She’s hot and tight and she feels like she was made for him - it’s almost too good. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, resting his forehead on her shoulder and gripping her hips so tightly that she’ll probably have bruises in the morning.

“You okay?” Betty whispers, running her hands over his tense shoulders. 

He nods, counting to five. “You feel incredible,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.” 

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got all night.” She tilts his chin up and presses her lips to his, her tongue stroking languidly into his mouth. 

She’s intoxicating, and he immediately relaxes, sliding his hands up her back and pulling her flush against him. The kiss deepens, their hands explore more and more aggressively until both of them are gasping for breath and clinging to each other, and finally - _finally_ \- Betty starts to move, curling her hips in a slow, serpentine rhythm. She’s on her knees above him, one arm across his shoulders; his lips burning against her chest, his arm around her waist supporting her. 

Her head drops back and he latches onto her throat, biting and soothing, memorizing the taste of her skin. He can feel her pressed intimately against his stomach as they rock together, her muscles fluttering around him, her moans coming faster and faster. Then she leans back, spreading her legs and seizing his shoulders, grinding against him at a speed he can’t possibly match. Instinct tells him not to try and he watches her, enthralled, as she chases her high. “Jug - “ Her back arches and he leans forward to take her nipple between his teeth, tugging lightly, and she cries out, clutching the back of his head and holding him to her breast. “Fuck - yes!” - then she’s gone, riding him like a woman possessed and coming around him with a low, sharp scream. 

She's gripping him so tightly that he can barely move, but there’s no way he can hold off any longer. He falls back on the bed, holding her waist and snapping his hips up into her, over and over,  gritting his teeth against the overwhelming pleasure ripping through him. She’s chanting his name and clawing at his chest - his body is tensing - and then everything goes white for a minute. 

When his senses clear, she’s draped across him like a rag doll, shaking and drawing long, strained breaths. “Oh, my God, Jug,” she whispers. He just nods and wraps his arms around her, cradling her head against his neck and rubbing her back. He’s still inside her, and she’s pulsing around him and he’s absolutely _boneless_. Nothing short of nuclear war could entice him to end this moment. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, because she hasn’t stopped trembling and he’s not entirely sure if that’s normal. 

“I’m freezing,” she says, chuckling lightly against him but making no move to cover herself. 

Dropping his hand on the bed, he haphazardly grabs a corner of the blanket and tugs it over them. She sighs happily, shifting her weight and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “That was amazing. _You’re_ amazing. How have you never done that before?” 

“I’ve never met anyone I wanted to do it with.” Maybe he’s old-fashioned, but Betty’s the only woman with whom he’s ever entertained the idea of sex. And it was better than he could have ever imagined. “Except you.” 

She’s quiet for a minute, processing that. “I really like you, you know. I have for a while.” 

“Me too, Betts. You’re ... you're incredible.” He’s not quite ready to tell her that he’s never liked anyone besides her, or that he doesn’t think he ever will. They haven’t even been on a date yet, and he figures convention demands at _least_ dinner and drinks before he starts professing eternal devotion. 

“I’m sorry I sort of sprung this on you. I’ve tried to be subtle about it but you’re completely oblivious.” 

He laughs and tightens his hold on her. “I’m sorry for being completely oblivious. I’d like to make it up to you, though. Can I take you out tomorrow night?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

**

 


End file.
